


Raven

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Dirty Talk, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He likes this type, pretty with the dirt ground into their skin like dye, perfumed with copper and fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raven

He's scuffed up and bruised, all his worldly goods looped round his neck like the thin bands are ornamentation instead of the life-lines Spike knows they are. He likes this type, pretty with the dirt ground into their skin like dye, perfumed with copper and fear.

Spike touches Drusilla's arm. She looks at him, then over his shoulder at the boy he's spotted, huddling by the corner of a building with stick-arms wrapped around stick-legs. "Eyes like ravens," she whispers, her own going wide. "He's trapped, caught and wriggling on the hook. Doesn't know how to get home."

Spike gives her his hand when she twirls around, the bottom of her coat flicking like a skirt over her heels. She's beautiful, his Dru. "Mind if I take a bit?"

"Mmm, no," she purrs, twirling around him like a ballerina. "I want another dolly."

"Just don't make as much mess as last time, all right? There, now," he soothes as she comes to a stop before him. Her eyes are wide and grey as she peeks up, and even when still and silent she looks like she's constantly poised for motion. She could've been a Degas model, but Spike's jealously glad she wasn't. Sodding frogs. "Give us a kiss."

She kisses him, delicate, brushing wings without the heat he's expecting, and twinkles when he frowns. "Naughty boy. Spending early for Christmas!" She laughs as she leaves him, weaving through the other pedestrians like a ghost, like they don't even see her. It's possible, he thinks, and then turns back.

Dru is a constant, his ever and eternal. 

But she's not his every moment of every sodding day.

Besides. There's something off about this boy. Spike's not as good as Dru when it comes to divining inner secrets, but he's better at it than Angelus ever was, and certain better than Darla. Too used to using their looks and charm when they should be using their eyes and ears.

Spike's standing nearly on top of the boy before he finally looks up, eyes dark and glittering in the street lights. "You're a vampire."

His voice is light, youthful, a pure tenor -- and it's older than the fragile appearance suggests. That's disappointing, as Spike's fond of twelve year olds who've just discovered their dicks do more than piss. It makes other things easier, though, so as a trade-offs go it's not a bad one. He still _looks_ about twelve.

Hm.

Feeling wicked, Spike reaches a gloved hand -- they're playing Mr. and Mrs. Gentry at Dru's request -- tilts the boy's head back, and uses his thumb to pry his lips apart, studying his teeth. It's his father's trick and Spike despises himself for using it, but doing so almost always makes him hard. Treating humans like the livestock they are -- nothing better. The boy doesn't react, allowing himself to be manhandled and studied, but his eyes... Oh, his eyes.

Raven wings, Dru had said. Wicked, intelligent strength that belies the fragile exterior. Cunning. Vicious. Old.

"Sixteen going on seventeen," Spike pronounces. "Unless playing the prepubescent catch gets you more?"

The flicker's small enough that Spike knows most probably miss it. He doesn't. First score to him, despite the boy's opening volley. Nice. "I'm Steven," the boy says. He gets to his feet when Spike tugs, body swaying. He's nothing but skin and bones and burning fires clumsily banked.

"Don't have any body heat to warm you." Another brush of the boy's body has his own tightening in different ways. Two points of hardness against his own -- cock and stake. He smiles down, letting feathery brown hair twist through his fingers. "I can offer other things, though."

It's not often that Spike meets warriors, the ones that embody the spirit as well as the skill. He gets a sense of that now, of a watchful, waiting presence that knows exactly the dangers Spike presents and knows better than any but a Slayer how to take him down if necessary.

And then it's gone, snuffed out, and the there's nothing but a half-starveling boy in his grip, waiting to be told if he's scored a mark or not.

Spike smooths his hand down the boy's side, into his sweats to cup the boy's arse. The skin is tight with gooseflesh and youth. Spike squeezes harder than a normal sixteen year old could probably handle, grinning when Steven moans and arches into the touch.

"Surprised at you," Spike tells him a half hour later. Finding a place is easy, no one looking twice at the bit of twink that follows him like a shadow. It disgusts Spike, but it's useful so who cares? He's in a cheap, crappy motel room that's got extra blankets on the bed and the remains of fast food meal crumpled on the table. It still smells of hamburgers. "I figured a boy like you'd be making it in rougher trade than this."

Steven looks at him sharply. The warrior is back and it's no surprise at all when the boy says, "No. I don't fight for money."

"Just fuck? Too bad. I always did like a little sex in my violence. C'mere."

Steven sheds the ratty clothes as he abandons his meal and crawls onto the bed. His body is whip-cord thin, knots of muscles riding high above bone, and Spike knows without a shadow of a doubt that if this boy wants to hurt him, it'll _hurt_.

His cock throbs.

Straddling his thighs, Steven looks up for orders.

Oh, fuck yes. Perfectly obedient, pretty, and the boy hasn't even negotiated a price yet. "Suck me off."

The boy makes a perfect O with his smeared-pink mouth as he drops down, mouthing Spike through his jeans while busy, perfect hands run up and down his thighs. Spike says nothing, his face impassive, because as wanton as each movement is, Steven's eyes are solemn as they stare up at Spike.

Pretty boy, Spike thinks. _Intriguingly_ pretty boy.

When his jeans are finally undone, cock in a human's humid warmth, Spike lets his hand wander over the boy's face and hair and neck. He's not caressing, not petting, although the boy's pretty enough that Spike might want to offer a bit of comfort to his newest acquisition -- and it's an acquisition, even if Steven doesn't know it yet -- but it's hotter to keep the touches impersonal, merely studying the shape and breadth of his playmate, studying him in new and different ways.

Fisting his hands in Steven's hair, Spike yanks back. Steven's mouth makes a popping noise when he's forced off, and he's panting, face flushed, eyes glazed and locked on Spike's cock even several seconds after. "Aren't you a pretty thing," he murmurs. He rubs the boy's scalp without relaxing his grip -- the steady pressure makes Steven's eyes flutter, his body going even more boneless over Spike's legs. "Sit on my dick," he orders.

Steven doesn't bother with condoms, fortunate since Spike's not patient with fools. He just scrambles up, rapidly pushing Spike's pants down further, his shirt up to expose his belly to Steven hot, dragging tongue, his ass going high up in the air and almost wagging in invitation.

Spike has long arms, and he's pretty motivated. He makes it work.

"Tight for a whore," he grunts, two fingers inside the boy's pretty, pretty arse. The slick is his, bought on the same run as Steven's supper, and the cheap kind. It's still a treat for this one, who's got abrasions Spike's rubbing just to see tears in those pretty, incongruous eyes.

Eventually, Spike tires of this particular game, even with Steven turning contortionist tricks to follow Spike's hand and chest at once -- boy has a thing for nipples that's almost oedipal and Spike's not complaining -- and growls low in his throat.

Instantly, Steven's twisting around, sliding his slick, stretched ass over Spike's cock, knees braced up against Spike's sides. He looks pretty like that, glittering artwork from a brothel, breathless poise and grace juxtaposed with the crassest, basest of acts -- fucking yourself on another man's cock.

And fuck he does. He's slow at first, furtive glances and intense concentration has him learning Spike's likes and dislikes with only a few passes. The muscles in his thighs bulge, perfectly able to work his body like this without any leverage, arms loose against his sides. His legs are practically hairless.

Spike's just about to order the boy to hurry it up and start fucking already when he does, leaning back just enough to put on a decent show. The bed bounces as he starts fucking in earnest, soft, swallowed grunts the only noise beside the steadily rising tempo of his breathing.

Five minutes in and Spike reaches out, catching the boy's sac -- and gets a nice internal massage for his trouble. "Like that, do you?" Spike asks, flicking the boy's red-flushed cock. "I'll bet. You naturally on the sparse side or do you wax yourself young?"

Steven doesn't answer, just adds a roll to his motions, pushing cock and balls towards Spike's hand if he so wants to play with. And it's clear that it _is_ for Spike's enjoyment. Steven's is just a side-effect.

His cock is worthy of playing with, at least. Long and thin with a cherry-head on top and Spike wants to lick and see just how much salt makes up this too-young boy who's grinding on top of him.

Maybe next time.

"Off," he grunts, suddenly disgusted with his own passivity. It's amusing to play the lordling with hired hands, but Spike can't ever maintain it for long. He wants to fuck, wants that pert ass upturned for thrusts that'll leave him raw and bloody and desperate for more.

Steven grunts, pulling and rolling easily, going to hands and knees. He holds that for a moment, head over his shoulder, gauging Spike's reactions. Then he shifts, widening his legs, ass even higher, slick and pink with his cock dangling down below, torso lowering to the bed with his arms outstretched.

If Steven were a kitten, he'd be begging to play. Hell, maybe he _is_ when he wiggles his arse.

Spike's on him in a flash, missing the first two thrusts and leaving wet trails on Steven's arse before he finally slides in. He sets up a punishing rhythm that crashes the headboard into the wall, the bed squeaking dire protestations while Steven grunts and breathes and silently begs for more. It's irresistible, but Spike waits until he sees new bruises forming on Steven's cheeks, pink shadows that'll turn purple-black in a few hours, and just thinking about touching him there, maybe fucking his mouth while he plays, and Spike whites out as he comes.

Steven stays pliant as Spike pulls out, watching his come drip down the inside of the boy's thighs, not moving until Spike smacks him. "On your back," he orders. The boy's rigid with want he'll never ask for, and Spike likes him enough to grant a temporary reprieve. He's leaving smears on the bedspread but it's not like Spike cares. "Want it fast or hard?"

"Hard," Steven says, and stays silent as he jacked off the way a vampire likes it -- hard _and_ fast, leaving friction burns in his wake. Steven moans something as he comes. Not English. Not _human_.

Spike's not quite sure what dialect it is, but he'll figure it out. He likes puzzles. Most of the time, anyway. Besides, he thinks Dru will know and showing Dru to this one will be _lots_ of fun.

"How soon can you get it up again?" he asks, idly dragging his fingers through the release staining the boy's stomach. There's a dirty scrape that needs to be cleaned, blood dried into tracks. It has to hurt, but he makes no complaint.

"Soon. Why?"

"Does it matter?" Dru'll want a taste of this prize, Spike knows that. She'll ride him like a prize pony while Spike takes his mouth again, and he'll not be allowed to come for hours. Dru likes denial in her pets. It's a useful way to keep them in line.

Steven thinks for a moment. There's more deliberation going on beyond a trick look for his next mark, a boy looking for his next meal, but Spike doesn't call him on it. He's not going to try and unravel this one without finding the ends first, the places that're already frayed and giving. So he just watches, occasionally pinching where he strokes because he knows the pain is what makes the pleasure of being touched so casually worth it.

"No," Steven says after a moment, "it doesn't," and "can we get some more food before we go?"


End file.
